


We two alone will sing like birds i' th' cage

by myzticbean



Category: Taboo (TV 2017)
Genre: Child Abuse, Cunnilingus, Dark, F/M, Half-Sibling Incest, Incest, Pre-Series
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-10
Updated: 2017-02-09
Packaged: 2018-09-23 05:35:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9642839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/myzticbean/pseuds/myzticbean
Summary: From children to adults, James and Zilpha are no strangers to blurred lines and the horror of of household secrets.James is quiet, staring up into eyes so eerily similar to his own. The girl is brittle and hollow. She sways with hunger and pain, and would be easily overwhelmed. He can break her with one cruel word and a harsh strike, and she would never speak to him so forwardly again. But he wants this little bird to be his, to stay perched on his shoulder when she could fly free instead.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This story will contain very disturbing themes, especially regarding childhood abuse and incest. Please do not read further if you may be triggered by such topics.
> 
> With that said, I try to handle the subject matter as carefully as possible. 
> 
> I've played with the timeline and now it's more AU pre-series after episode 5. This was written prior to some of the later episodes, and as such, may not match up with canon entirely.

Little Bell sat down beneath the rocks,  
Tossed aside her gleaming golden locks,—  
“Bonny bird,” quoth she,  
“Sing me your best song before I go.”  
“Here ’s the very finest song I know,  
Little Bell,” said he.  
  
And the Blackbird piped; you never heard  
Half so gay a song from any bird,—  
Full of quips and wiles,  
Now so round and rich, now soft and slow,  
All for love of that sweet face below,  
Dimpled o’er with smiles.  
-Thomas Westwood

 

* * *

 

Zilpha is five when James, three, and his mother come to live in her father’s country estate. She holds out her hand to the boy when no one is looking, but he backs away and flees from her.

She watches from her window as James and his mother run through fields and forests, sometimes shockingly naked when the weather is warm enough.

“May I come?” Zilpha musters up the courage to ask his mother. She wants to run naked through the field and forest and forever away from this house. But she only looks at Zilpha blankly, and turns away on silent feet.

 

Zilpha is eight when James _sees_ her for the first time. Oh, they have shared meals, but no play. It is as if Zilpha is a ghost; a reflection of light only in the corner of one’s eye.

She stands outside of her classroom where her governess has placed her, naked and trembling. She has born the strokes of the cane across her bottom and her hands as silently as she is able, though tears and snot seep down her face. She has no handkerchief or sleeve with which to wipe away the evidence upon her face and eyes.

James is strolling down the corridor, clad scantily without shirt and shoes. His feet are dirty from the fields outside, pants rolled up above his ankles. His bracers have been pushed off his shoulders, tangled around his hips.

Zilpha wants to run away when he catches sight of her alone in the halls. Instead, she stands in the gloomy darkness - though it is daylight outside - hurting and tired and ignored.

He pauses mid-step and surveys her closely, a forgotten piece of fruit held in one grimy hand. She meets his gaze, the small hairs on the back of her neck tingling to life.

Her eyes drift jealously across his face, the cheeks full and ripe with health and enough food. His body is strong and lean from the outdoors, tan and olive-coloured even in the dim, flickering light of the hallway.

Zilpha has been hungry for so long. She has endured too many long nights with nothing but a glass of water to quiet her belly. The skin on her face has tightened; when she peers into her mirror in the darkness -- there has been no fire in her room -- all she can see is the glimmer of skull grinning back at her.

She can sometimes see that same skull peering from her mirror when her Father creeps quietly into her bedroom at night.

She hurts to walk, and cannot run. She hurts to sit, and she hurts to stand. The bruises bloom like such ugly flowers across her skin; sunflower mottles of yellow and black stretching across the canvas of her body.

She is so afraid sometimes; she wants to close her eyes and never wake up.

 “I am a caged bird beating itself against the bars,” she whispers.

James peers at her, his gaze caught between young and old. His eyes are so dark sometimes, as black as the night. But sometimes in the sun, when she can just barely glimpse him from a window high above the ground, his face is turned to the light and she can see his eyes shine the same green of the forest.

“Who’re you?” he asks at last.

Zilpha bursts into started laughter. She cannot help but laugh because she cannot cry any more - not if she wants to remain sane, and as whole as the stitched fractures will allow.

She curls forward protectively over her belly, howling and shaking with now-silent laughter.

“Who. Am. I,” she gasps between rapid bursts. “Indeed. Who am I? I hardly know.”

He glares at her now as his small, round face screws up in displeasure. She has displeased the little lordling.

She reaches forward, grasping his face in hands so swollen she fears they may fall off. As bloated as a corpse left in water too long. “I am you,” she says. “I share your eyes, and your Father. I share your home. I share the grass you walk upon, and the horses you ride. I share the darkness. But I do not share my pain.”

She grips his face tighter, wanting to scratch and gouge the smooth skin that displays no recent painful lessons from his tutors.

James still has to look up into her face, but she knows it will not always be thus. He is due a growth soon; she can see it in the lengthening of his fingers and the trembling of his knees.

“Are you mine, then? If we share so much?” he asks, and his eyes do not dip below hers. He does not peer at her flat breasts or the empty cradle of her hips. He does not touch the skin of her ribs or bottom. If he does, she thinks, she will tear the eyes from his head and rip him piece by piece.

“No. You are _mine_ ,” she whispers spitefully. She pulls him one step closer, but not enough to touch. Her fingers leave white pressure marks across his cheeks, but he does not flinch. “You are not in _my_ head,” she says, “but I will be in yours. Let me in.”  

 

James is quiet, staring up into eyes so eerily similar to his own. The girl is brittle and hollow. She sways with hunger and pain, and would be easily overwhelmed. He can break her with one cruel word and a harsh strike, and she would never speak to him so forwardly again. But he wants this little bird to be his, to stay perched on his shoulder when she could fly free instead.

He can hardly parse any of the feelings rioting through his chest. He is not old enough to know what the flicker beckons, nor wise enough to pull away.

He barely recalls seeing her before today.

“Yes,” he answers. “Yes.”

Her eyes widen in belated surprise, dark hair escaping from the tight braid that tangles against her neck and sweeps the wings of her shoulders.

“You cannot take it back,” she says, lowering her voice. It is hardly heard, merely a puff of breath against his own mouth.

“I won’t,” he replies, his own dark eyes captured by hers.

Suddenly, a scuffling noise comes from the room behind the girl.

“Your name,” he orders. “Tell me.”

She pauses. Her shoulders straighten into unbreakable perfect posture despite the pain that must be radiating through her half-starved form. She tightens like a bow as the muffled noises grow ever closer.

She does not answer, instead pushes him away and back towards the darkness opposite of her. The door opens quickly as if to catch the girl unaware; as if they have not heard the noises harkening the approach.

“Well? Have you learned your lesson?” The governess stands stern and heavy behind the wavering image of the naked savage girl caught in the doorway of the classroom.

The girl does not answer, merely turning to face the older woman. She tilts her head to peer through the escaped tendrils of hair.

“If you don’t answer me, I’ll add on five more swats,” the woman hisses dangerously.

“I did learn, Mrs. Harper,” the girl answers politely after another too-lengthy pause.

The woman reaches out with clawed hands, as if barely restraining herself from shaking the girl to pieces right there in the doorway. She grips her arm where more bruises are already blossoming.

“I see you still have enough energy to be impudent, Miss Zilpha. I’ll work that out of you.” She yanks the girl into the room, never glancing out to where James stands watching in the darkness.

“Just you wait and see.” The door closes with the softest click.

James stands mute, listening to the sick, muffled sounds of almost-silent crying on the other side until he can stomach no more.

 

* * *

 

At eleven, they are to move back to London. James and Zilpha creep into the forest together, with James carefully surveying the shadows for any hint of movement.

“What do you think shall happen now?” Zilpha asks as they climb their tree. She presses her fingers to the crudely drawn heart by the branch she has always sat upon, while James continues his climb to the top.

He carved it for her one similar evening, when even the moon had disappeared from sight and they were surrounded in total darkness. He had cut his fingers, feeling for the lines in the bark to guide the next shaky curve.

“I don’t know,” he calls down to her quietly as he gazes through the tops of the trees. The lookout, he called it once. To see if any have followed them.

She sighs heavily. “I wonder if Father will try to find me a husband.”

James sucks in a breath. “No,” he says sharply. “No, I won’t allow it. You’re to stay with me.”

“I cannot stay forever,” she answers solemnly, as if her own heart isn’t beating fast enough to fly away. “And one day, he will find a wife for you.”

“No,” he grits out. “I’ll marry no one but you.”

“James.” She is aghast. “We can’t.”

“We can, and we shall.”

“We _cannot_ ,” she stresses. “We are brother and sister.”

“Only half,” he replies, as if that is all the reasoning they need. She hears faint rustling as he climbs back down towards the branch she perches on. She feels like a bird on the tip of flight.

He settles himself behind her, back propped against the body of the tree. He wraps her within his arms, and with his legs sprawl on either side she nestles close against his chest.

The gossamer fabric of her nightdress flickers wraith-like in the moonlight. She absently adjusts the fabric across her lap and legs, the dark warmth behind her a comforting weight.

“Half is enough to matter,” she finally says, picking up the thread of their conversation once more. She forms herself more firmly against his chest. She can feel the press of her ribs, the creak of one that has never quite healed right.

James has gone through another growth, and while they are still close in height he has gained more strength and muscle than she probably ever shall. He wraps his arms around her middle, but loosely enough that she can escape if she has a mind to hurry away. He knows better than to trap her tightly. It frightens her enough that she will slide into mindless terror and remembered pain.

“Mother is coming with us,” he finally says at last.

“That is good,” Zilpha replies, patting the hands that rest gently over her belly. He hums a noise. She can usually read all of his grunts and mumbles, but she isn’t sure what to make of it.

They are quiet, and she drifts in the haze of the late hour and the warmth of his presence. She imagines they need speak no words ever again. She is witness to all of his flaws and selfish desires. She enjoys those the most, when he burns with the wanting of something. Most often it is her, but she has caught it when he stares longingly at one of the hunting puppies, or the foal that the neighbors’ prized mare has birthed.

“We should go away together.”

She jerks free of memories and returns to the present. He never did care for her to wander so far away from him when they had so little time together. As he’d grown older, Father made sure he was educated; he frequently sent James away to public schools only to have him return after he was forced home by the schools for poor behavior.

“Where would we go?”

“We should sail to an island, where no one knows us. Maybe we could take Mother,” he says, his voice so rough it is all but garbled. “We could live in a small house together.”

“And how would we survive?” she asks, interested despite herself.

“I would hunt, and you would tend to our garden. I would chop wood, and fish in a little boat. You would sew us clothes and cook us food. And we would live together where no one knew us, and we would be a man and his wife.”

Zilpha sighs, longing. “I want that,” she whispers into the darkness, sharing her secret.

“Then I must give it to you,” he answers, and he presses a soft kiss to her temple. She turns her head on instinct, and now their mouths brush.

Once. Twice. Softly, with little understanding how it was supposed to work but an earnest willingness to try. She knows other adults do such things, but as she is so rarely released from her cage, she knows little about such relationships. All she knows is pain and fear.

She feels the press of his chapped lips against hers, and while she doesn’t moan or thrash in pleasure as adults might, she feels the warmth of his mind rub against hers; she knows it is better than some wicked pleasure.

This is real. Zilpha can’t be a ghost when James can feel her against his mouth.

They sit there for many minutes, just teasing brushes of dry mouth to dry mouth. Pressing and releasing, easing away before magnetized closer for another touch. Zilpha can’t remember a time she has ever been so warm.

“James,” she whispers, and she likes how her mouth moves against his. James eases forward at the motion and breath of his name, and he mouths her name quietly back.

“You are mine, right?” Her neck is starting to hurt being twisted to the side, but she cannot bear to face away from him again.

“Always. Yes.” He grunts, resettling her against him. He cups her chin in his hand, easing her head back against his chest one more. He always knows, even when she says nothing of her discomfort.

“Sing me a song before I go,” she pleads.

“I don’t sing.”

“You don’t dance either, but you’ve danced with me.”

“I don’t know any songs.”

“Not even from your mother?” she asks in disappointment. He can never endure her disappointment for long, and she uses such knowledge ruthlessly.

He clears his throat. His voice has not yet matured, still somewhat high and sweet with youth. She wonders how deep his voice will get, or if it will remain so sweet forever.

And when he sings for her, it is all short and long vowels she doesn’t understand, a moaning song she nevertheless sinks into. She slumps boneless against his chest. It sounds like the mumble of a dream and Zilpha doesn’t want to wake up. When it ends they sit once more in silence before they make their way down the tree with no more words between them, and it is as if the song follows her into the dreams she can no longer define from sleep and wakefulness.

 

* * *

 

Zilpha is thirteen when a man is brought into the waiting room. James is not home. She sits demurely, a cup cradled in her palm, fingers pointed as they brush the fine china of the tea cup.

Horace speaks with the man, short and sharp, and he motions for her to stay seated as he stands. Father leaves her alone with the man. There is no chaperone. It is quite unbecoming and she realizes the man recognizes the misstep.

She smiles at him sweetly, and asks after his family. She knows of his first wife who had passed away, and his recent financial troubles. His mother lives with him in a modest home in a modest part of town.

He slowly relaxes despite realizing her father is not returning soon. He even chuckles once or twice during their conversation. Zilpha knows her demeanor to be cold and distant, but she can be quietly witty if allowed.

This man does not have a firm hand. He can be led, and Zilpha likes this.

Father abruptly returns after an indecent amount of time has passed, and he glowers at her. “Where is your chaperone?” he demands, ignoring the sudden tension in the man across from her.

“Mother is out with James, and Mrs. Harper is sick today,” Zilpha answers promptly. Her sweet smile never wavers. “I didn’t want to leave our guest alone to call for another.”

Father frowns, as if just noticing the guest.

“I’m afraid I must ask if we can visit another time,” Horace says. He doesn’t bother walking the man to the door, and they hadn’t yet replaced the butler who had made off with their best candlesticks. Zilpha hides a wince, and instead gestures him towards the hall. She meets his eyes steadily, and there is nothing else to be said. He will not be returning, she knows.

Father is angry. So angry now. His fury burns bright along the skin of her cheek and in the grip on her shoulder.

“Upstairs,” he orders. He shoves her up the stairs and into her bed chambers.

 

Zilpha never quite knows if James’ mother finds out what her husband does, nor does Zilpha care in the end. There is no help forthcoming from that quarter. All she has is James, but James is still no match for a man. She tries to keep him from the worst of it. She hides what she can, and deftly avoids the details of what she cannot hide.

She hates with such passion as to drown her in the horror of her life. She still sometimes prays that God will grant her safe passage from life to death, quietly and preferably in uninterrupted sleep. God does not deign to answer, no matter how fervently she prays.

She marvels at the world man has made. Sometimes she is allowed out with her chaperone, to the dressmaker or the little shops not far from home, and when she meets the eyes of other women, she imagines the solidarity of mingled pain is all that keeps them moving.

She does not allow James to touch her throat or the back of her neck.

It was days like today, when she has hardly the strength to pull her fractured armor together, to clean herself and dress again, that she just wants to die.

 

It finally ends only months later. She hates that it is James that protects her, when she so desperately wants to protect herself.

James watches her throughout dinner. He sits at the opposite end of the table, facing Father. Zilpha and his mother sit in the middle of the table, as is proper, and they hardly speak even when rarely addressed.

Father watches James watch her. Three sets of dark eyes at the table, all matching.

She eats slowly, methodically. The cold outside makes her stomach ache and her left elbow creak. She has never quite regained full use of that arm.

Several courses pass in such rhythm, as James and her father bandy words as if they parry naked blades. She chooses not to listen. James’ mother never looks up from her plate. Her broad features are beautiful and savage.

Finally, the charade is over and Father retires to his study to sip brandy and smoke an awful-smelling pipe. Normally James will join him in his nightly custom.

Zilpha stands, dips into a small curtsy, and leaves with barely a flutter of skirt. Her ribs ache with the corset she had been wrestled into though her posture is perfect.

Her new maid stands waiting at her door, and has stoked the fire into pleasant warmth. They barely speak as they go about their nighttime ritual. The young woman does not comment on the news bruises exposed as each layer of clothing removed, and Zilpha in turn passes a small coin into a rough palm.

She sits in a chair before the fire, a small book propped in her lap though unopened. She knows her studies will be coming to an end soon. It will not do to educate her further. As it is, she has learned how to run a household; to sew small pieces of cloth and buttons back onto shirts, to discuss dinner menus and delegate chores. She is not allowed to count the expenses or know the true value of their family.

The door opens and she knows it is James. He walks towards her silently, despite the nice leather boots that shod his feet. Her slippers rustle against the thin carpet.

“Zilpha,” he murmurs, crouching to sit at her feet. He does not call her ‘sister’ in private.

She likes him by her feet, and she slips one foot free to rest it against his thigh. “James,” she sighs back, relaxing into her chair.

He rubs her foot absently, the callus of his hands catching on the stocking. “Why are you here tonight?” she asks finally.

He raises dark eyes to hers. They have not been green in some time; but that is right and just, because they are the same person and Zilpha’s eyes have never been green.

He does not answer. But she is his mind, and she knows him as well as he will ever know himself. Protection, in as much as a boy his age and size offer. A surprising amount, she admits to herself. James scares Father sometimes.

“My darling James,” she laughs, and she touches his head fondly, stroking the dark, straight hair so like his mother. He keeps it short. The spiky sensation of the short locks tickle her palm. He bows his head, letting her palm slide over the back of his skull; she cups it protectively. “Darling, foolish James.”

“No more,” he finally answers, lifting his gaze back to hers. She sees promise in those dark, hellish eyes. She knows hers gleam just as eerily in the firelight.

“No more,” she agreed. She smiles, teeth bared in no semblance of pleasure. A wild thing, reflected in her mirror before her feet.

That night she hears her door open. James lay in her bed, his arm draped over her waist. She lay with her back to the door, facing him. She watches his face as he stares impassively over her shoulder. He is tight with tension, fury and fear warring in equal measure. Zilpha cannot feel fear now, not with him by her side.

The door clicks quietly shut, and James sighs as if he fought some fierce battle. Zilpha wants to laugh, but if she laughs she may cry, and so she makes no sound. She settles more firmly into her bed, closing her eyes and drifting into the first dreamless sleep in years.

 

* * *

 

James is sent away to school again when Zilpha is fourteen in an effort to separate them. Father does not care for the protection James is keen to offer; he snarls and snaps like a feral dog when Father seems to brush too close to Zilpha.

“I don’t wish to leave,” he grumbles in their bed. She smiles at him fondly, caressing the short strands of dark hair as he nuzzles close to share her pillow. It will be time for another trim soon.

“You need not worry on my behalf,” she says softly in the creeping darkness of their bedroom.

“I will always worry.”

“Not now. Not again. He will not touch me further.”

“You can’t know that. He is stronger and older than you. Men are unscrupulous, and will not hesitate to use your weakness against you. How would you fight him off?” James asks, and his voice is tight and harsh with barely suppressed anger.

“My sweet James. It will never come to that ever again.”

She will say no more about it, and James is forced to go away to school. It did not last overly long, however, with the school’s administration citing his savagery and disobedient behavior as unfit. Father rages, and they fight bitterly.

That night, celebrating his return with the kisses she had craved so sweetly and missed so dearly, she holds onto him tightly.

“Were you safe?”

“I came to no harm,” she soothes. She wraps her hand behind his neck, tugging him closer. They share a breath, heads cradled on the same pillow as they had before he had left.

“Did that bastard try anything?”

“We have come to an understanding.” She smiles grimly. “He understands now that if he ever enters my quarters ever again, I will come into his room as he sleeps and cut off his penis.”

James pauses and sucks in a startled breath before laughing loud and long. He rolls onto his back, draping her across his chest and clutching her closely in poorly-disguised relief.

She smiles coyly through the dark tresses that curtain their faces, brushing a kiss tenderly upon his cheeks and chin and lips in quiet contentment.

 

* * *

 

When Zilpha is sixteen, she knows Father is worried he will not find her a husband. Already, the few friends she has made – and she uses that term loosely – have been married off to older, moderately wealthy men.

James worries, she knows, because she can feel that worry gnaw at him whenever Father brings it up in his presence. His desire to sail away has grown fiercely sharper, and she enjoys dipping her toe into the salty, cool water of the oceans in his dreams.

James, now fourteen, is already so strong and broad as to dwarf their father. His mother is the ghost now, barely drifting through Zilpha’s life. She hopes that James has a stronger relationship with her, though Zilpha does not ask and he does not tell. There have been whispers among their acquaintances that she has gone mad.

Zilpha likes the strength of his shoulders when she runs her palms over the smooth skin he bares so unflinchingly. Had they lived in the forest still, she knows he would never wear a shirt or shoes and would race through the fields of their property.

His skin is still a beautiful olive hue, not as pale as her sunless skin. Sometimes, she loosens her hair when they lie entwined in her bed and she smooths it over his chest. It tickles him, his belly trembling from the sweet brush, and she smiles as she presses her mouth to his warm skin.

They do not lie together as a man and woman, and even though Father has stopped visiting her, the scar will linger for the rest of her life. He does not touch her as a lover, but as an extension of her own hand.

Sometimes she wonders idly of what will happen should she welcome him in her arms and between her thighs, and she never knows if it is his thoughts or her own imaginings.

“I should get rid of household baggage,” Father mutters as he looks over his ledgers. James’ mother sits quietly on settee in their gathering room, while Zilpha stitches little birds on a piece of stretched cloth.

“Baggage?” James rumbles as he cleans and oils a pistol at a small table. Horace harrumphs.

 

It is the night before Zilpha’s next birthday when she lay in bed next to James and reaches for him. As they had as children, and even still as young adults, they press their lips chastely together. Dry and soft and sweet.

“My James, my darling. My soul,” Zilpha murmurs. His lips chase and nip at hers, growing more fervid. His fever is her fever, their skin inflamed where they press closer together.

She shuffles closer, wrapping her arms around his shoulders as much as she is able. He is so broad now, more like a bull or stallion than the fleeting deer of her childhood memories.

When he presses closer, she gasps. She tears her mouth from his, wet and shining with the spit of new passion. Fear, now, touches her cheek. Fear strokes her hair back from her face.

She pushes him away, and he goes willingly, sprawled on his back. She breathes deeply, harshly, throat tight with anxiety. But she forces the ghost of another man from her room, and she crawls towards her James with the night-dark eyes.

She touches the fringe that has grown over his forehead, tenderly moves it away from his eyes.

“My love,” he answers, his eyes boring into hers. Daring her to look away from him. How could she? How could she bear to leave him?

“Tomorrow,” she says, “I go to meet my betrothed.”

“No,” he grits through clenched teeth.

“Yes,” she says gently, her finger resting against his temple. “But not before I give you something precious.”

He stares up at her, wordless with pain and desire. He has never been able to hide from her.

And now, she cannot hide from him. She opens her mind to him, and his eyes are suddenly awash in the dark green of the forest. If she stares hard enough, she can see the carving in their tree reflected in his gaze. He doesn’t speak, basking in the horrible burn of her memories and dreams and her love for him.

It was taboo, she had learned long ago, for a father and a daughter to come together in the horror that had been her bedroom. It was just as taboo, she knew, for a brother and a sister to love.

She will take that love and hold it close to the little bird trapped in its cage within her chest, and she will not free it now.

James tugs her down to sprawl across his chest and to bring her mouth back to his. She can rip free from him if she chooses, but she does not. Instead, she presses ever closer, wanting to burrow within his skin. His fingers move as she desires; he touches her back and strokes over the expanse of bone and skin with a broad swipe of his hand.

She whimpers her love against his mouth again and again, and he swallows her words and holds them within.

“Zilpha,” he groans finally, and she flattens his hands to rest against the bed, clasped in her own. She clambers on top of him, still dressed in her nightshift. She knows with the fire at her back it is almost sheer now, and she sees her own desires reflected in James.

She skims the tips of her fingers across his chest, testing the muscles as they ripple at her touch. Shudders wrack his frame when she teasingly pinches his nipples with a coy smirk, and his laughter puffs at her lips when she brushes her fingers down the sensitive flesh of his ribs.

She smiles to see him beneath her. Her long legs grip his waist, and she can feel his manhood resting against the crease of her bottom. “I am afraid,” she says at last. “Afraid of leaving you. I am afraid to take you within my body.”

She sees no judgement in his eyes.

“But I am most afraid of never having you. I want you to remember me always before I go.”

 

“As if I could forget the other half,” he grunts, and now his fingers are touching her knees beneath her shift. His voice cracks on the last word.

She grins, freeing the smile she so rarely can show in their dark household. He watches her watching him and he can’t look away, not even when other people are in the room. She had once told him that he would give them away, and he had scoffed.

“I’ll never look away from you,” he had promised. She had smiled so widely he had almost stumbled.

 He is as gentle as an eager boy can be, forcing his limbs to move slowly. He is excited, nearly losing himself with just the vision of Zilpha riding on his cock. He had visited the brothels at the dockside, but had feared bringing back diseases as the other lads had. He had heard of the scratching and burning from the whores. He still wonders if he should have performed more research than he did.

Instead, he lets her direct him as she wishes. He would lay down his life for her, should she ask it of him. When Zilpha pulls the shift over her head, he catches a breath at the exposed curve of her breasts, the nip of her waist and flare of her hips.

A thatch of dark hair nestles in the cradle of her hips; his fingers twitch against the soft skin at her knee.

“Touch me,” she orders, grabbing his hands and lifting them to her breasts. She carefully places his hands over her flesh, holding him still for a long moment before releasing him with a long breath.

“As you command,” he answers huskily, laughing silently at the quick flash of teeth she snarls at him.

He slides his fingers across her skin tenderly, luxuriating in her softness. He plucks at her nipples, his mouth watering at the thought of having her flesh between his teeth. Her face shifts in the shadows thrown by the fire, but he need not see her eyes to know everything.

He can feel all that she is, his mind finally allowed to press into hers. He has hidden how mad she can drive him when she takes over his dreams, but now she bares all of herself to him. He cannot squander the gift.

They touch and play and love. She tugs his clothing down his hips, and his shirt was discarded as soon as they had sprawled on the bed together. They learn tender spots of pleasure; he loves the gasp she utters each time he brushes the curve of her bottom and laps the soft skin under her breasts. She makes him writhe as she scritches her nails across his hipbones.

She shifts away from him suddenly, mouth trailing slickly along his thighs. She scratches unexpectedly with her sharp little nails, and he arches upward in pleasured pain. She muffles a dark chuckle against his skin, biting and licking at him.

“Please,” he mutters. “More.”

“I like it when you beg,” she says huskily. She hovers over his penis, her breath warm and wet. His legs tremble, and he has to bite back the words.

“Oh, don’t stop now,” she teases.

“Zilpha, I need-please-I,” he starts to say, disjointed and aroused, and the sensation of her mouth against the head of his cock is almost enough to have him ejaculate prematurely.

“’m close.”

“You won’t.”

He gasps, tightening his shoulders and thighs to stave off orgasm. “Hurry, then.”

Her mouth engulfs the head of his cock, and the warmth sends shudders through his entire body. “Fuck,” he curses. “Fucking, yes.” She bobs her head a little, uncoordinated. She doesn’t know what to do with her hands, so she tentatively settles it at the base. She pets the fine hairs on his sack, and he twitches. She can feel him start to pulse in her mouth, and pulls off abruptly. He stifles a cry of dismay until she crawls up his body to settle once more upon his stomach.

 “You don’t get to come yet,” she says authoritatively. He smiles fiercely up at her, heat pooling in his belly. Her mind is firmly entwined with his. He curses fluently again.

She waits another moment, letting him get his body back under control. When he finally nods, she asks, “Are you sure?”

“Of you? Always,” he answers, his gaze captured by hers. “Together.”

She nods, and slowly her fingers drift towards the dark hair between her legs. He watches avidly as her fingers seek flesh, combing through the soft hair. Pale, trembling fingers part flushed pink lips, the small bud exposed. He wants to put his hand and mouth on that glittering flesh, but he holds himself still.

Instead, he watches as she touches herself; calm, soothing strokes to the little bundle of nerves. Dipping gentle fingers further back, he can see the coating of sweet fluid on her fingers as she pulls them back out.

“A taste, for being so obedient.”

He swallows thickly, and opens his mouth. His eyes lock eagerly onto her fingers. When she thrusts her fingers between his lips, he barely holds back a groan. Sweet, salty and undeniably her. He can’t get enough. His tongue circles the digits, sucking eagerly. As the last of the taste is chased from her flesh, he moans in disappointment as she finally pulls away.

“More?”

His eyes burn feverishly bright as they meet hers. “Yes, yes. Yes.”

She shifts, crawling up his body. He holds perfectly still, barely breathing. Hardly able to believe her daring.

“Gently,” she instructs.

He does as she bid, opening his mouth as she braces her hands against the headboard and her knees slide over his shoulders. Propped on a small pillow, he angles his head upwards.

And when she finally settles against his mouth, he can’t stop himself. He feels the come spurt across his belly unbidden, but he holds her thighs as he rubs teasingly at her mound. He noses between the soft hairs protecting that delicate pink flesh he so admires, and with her order in his mind, he softly strokes the bud with his tongue.

Her gasp is like music. The rush of fluid is unexpected and welcome; he can feel the damp seep into the still-sparse hairs on his chin.

He laves at her like an animal, unable to control the sounds of his pleasure at the high, sucking gasps she can barely muffle. He licks, sucks and messily thrusts his tongue into the warmth between her legs. He has no rhythm and little enough experience, but is not lacking eagerness.

Her hips shift, rubbing, and he can feel a warm slick coating his cheeks. He can’t get enough, lapping at her core to swallow every morsel. Her smooth thighs tighten around his head, and her shifting becomes grinding.

He ignores the shortness of breath, the deep inhales he can only grab through his nose during her rock backwards. She in turn ignores his struggle, and he thrusts his tongue as much as he can to mimic the fullness of his now-spent cock.

And finally, after what feels like delirious hours but must be only minutes, he can feel her convulse around his lips and tongue. He rubs her small nub with his nose while nodding his head in time to her stuttered rocking.

The loud exhale of her restrained moan sounds like music in the silent bedroom, the crackle of the fire not enough to drown out her pleasure. He groans in combined pleasure, his mind full of sounds and flashes of images. He imagines he can see his own dark head buried between her legs, and can feel the shuddering of her limbs in his own.

She sighs, one last little thrust against his mouth before she pulls away. James can feel the dampness of her pleasure cooling against his cheeks and mouth, but can’t bear to wipe it away. Instead he licks his lips, chasing one last taste.

“Good,” he mumbles, his voice a mere vibration in his chest.

“Good,” she agrees tiredly, coming to rest against his side. She doesn’t bother to pull her shift back on, and he quickly wipes the mess from his belly with his discarded shirt before slumping back on the bed. They rest together, their breathing slow. He pulls the coverlet over their cooling bodies, and has never felt so complete.

 

Morning dawns, tepid light filtering through the curtains in Zilpha’s bedchambers. She stretches; the flex of muscle and sinew is its own pleasure. She can feel James’ dark gaze following the fluid line of her arm, a pert breast and puckered nipple peeking from the bedcovers.

She enjoys the newly kindled warmth in his eyes, a flash of green caught in the sunlight before submerged by the dark iris.

“Zilpha.”

“Mmhmm,” she murmurs absently, scrubbing her fingernails through his short locks. She ruffles his hair cheerfully. “What is it, love?”

He shudders, rolling more closely towards her. “I would have you again.” It is not a demand.

“Yes,” she hisses, kneading his shoulders as her hand drops from the back of his head. She pushes at him gently, rolling him once more to his back.

She smoothly glides to perch atop him, the naked flesh of her womanhood settling atop the rapidly hardening flesh between his legs.

“Speak to me,” he growls. He places his hands at her waist, holding her steady as she lowers herself more firmly against him. He exhales heavily, fingers flexing once before he controls his grip.

She laughs breathily. “What would you have me say?”

She tugs at one of his hands, places it against her belly in silent demand. He smiles, the calluses of his fingers scraping pleasantly across her stomach. His pinky finger dips into the shallow pool of her belly, and she giggles before she can catch it back behind her teeth.

“Don’t silence yourself.” His voice is a low rumble, the hush of a household that has not stirred yet to complete wakefulness.

 “Would you hear, then, how much I adore you?” she asks, staring at his hand as it drops to cup her mound. She whimpers, fear warring once more with pleasure. He always knows. He pauses, letting her grow accustomed to his touch.

“I will never hurt you,” he promises. His eyes gleam in the dim morning light, the shadow of a beard tinting his cheeks. She scrubs her fingers over the bristle and flesh, shivering in delight.

“You cannot promise that,” she says fiercely. “Don’t say such things. It only makes it worse.”

She knows her battered bird’s melancholy song cannot be spun into a merry little tune. She had learned early enough that a broken promise hurts almost as badly as a broken arm.

His eyes flicker, and his fingers dig into her soft, feminine flesh in silent rebuke. Not enough to hurt or sting, but she catches the chastisement for what it is meant to be. She rolls her shoulders, bending forward to press her mouth to his.

“Kiss me, James. Make me forget every thought, drown me in sensation. I want the smell of your skin pressed into my own,” she whispers against his lips.

 “Always,” he answers. He leans forward and rolls her gently onto her back. He meets her eyes, and though she is not entirely comfortable, she tries to relax her instinctive tension. “I trust you,” she says to his unspoken question.

He dips his head and his mouth parts on the silent syllables of her name, tongue flickering against her bottom lip. She parts her mouth on his silent command, giving up taste and texture to his every demand. She moans, smothered, drowning in the scent and taste of James.

He returns the noise, and she swallows it down eagerly.

“You are mine.” She tugs her swollen lips away from his when she can finally feel the ache of the soft flesh as it presses against her teeth.

“I am yours,” he agrees. His mouth drifts to her chin, nibbling bites. He strokes the lobe of her ear with his tongue before his teeth capture it. She gasps, back arching in surprise.

“Like that?” He practically croons the words, and pleasure suffuses through her limbs. He offers a brief soothing lap before he bites down again a little harder. Her shoulders shake, a grumble caught in her throat.

“More,” she purrs, smiling coyly when he lifts his head to meet her gaze.

He bares his teeth the semblance of a wild smile, lowering his face to her breasts. Nipping at the curve of her breast, he inhales deeply.

One stroke of his tongue is all the warning she gets before he bites down hard, a mouthful of her flesh held tight between his teeth. He’s careful not to break skin, and she trembles in his grasp. She wants to writhe in wounded bliss.

He releases her and endorphins flood her body, leaving her shaky. He spares her another glance, meeting her eyes, before moving to the opposite breast.

Zilpha holds her breath, waiting; instead he nuzzles at the delicate coral tip, flushed and beaded. The thrill of anticipation holds her limbs still before he engulfs her nipple in the fiery warmth of his mouth.

“James,” she moans, thrusting her fingers through the short length of his hair to tightly grip the back of his head. “Please don’t tease.”

“I haven’t even begun,” he promises, his voice a low snarl of pleased arrogance. He immediately sucks the tender nipple back into his mouth, sipping at her flesh.

She shudders, crying out in stunned pleasure. She feels awash in sensation, drowning in their mingled scent of arousal and nerves.

James reluctantly drags his mouth from her breast, the tip quivering and damp in the cool morning air. He lips at her slender ribcage and marvels at the delicate strength of her body. He whispers his devotion in the curve of her belly.

She moves her hands away from his head, letting him shift down her body as he pleases. She clenches the sheets in her fist instead, eyes watching him dart and flit across the valley of her form. He bites at her hipbones, playfully gnawing as if it were a bone and he a dog.

She giggles at the ticklish brush of the soft hairs on his chin against her thigh, before groaning at the warm puff of air against the lips of her womanhood.

His mouth moves more surely against her this time, playfully teasing the swollen nub at the apex of her thighs. His mouth engulfs her, suckling sweetly before flicking his tongue through the folds.

Zilpha arches her neck, eyes trained on the ceiling. She bites her lip in an attempt to stifle the sounds of pleasure she knows she can’t control any longer.

“Let me hear you.”

“I…I cannot…” she cries out at the thrust of his tongue. She can hear the faint sounds of wet flesh against flesh, the sucking groans he muffles against her.

Sensitive and close to the edge, she yanks at the sheets, feeling the inner walls of her cunt begin to flutter. He pulls abruptly away, and she can’t muffle her wail of displeasure. He laughs out loud, and she jerks her eyes to meet his.

“No, love. You’ll come with me inside you this time.” She watches as he pulls away, coming to brace himself above her once more. He pauses, silently requesting permission to continue.

“Yes,” she implores. “Yes, please.”

He bites his own lip this time to stifle a noise and reaches between their bodies to arrange himself at her entrance, but she cannot stop her instinctive flinch. Once more he stops. He pants softly above her, waiting for her to push him away.

“I…I am…” she can feel panic fluttering inside her chest; beating wings of terror that fill her with shame.

He rolls over onto his back instead, tugging her closer. “You are mine. I am yours,” he says gruffly. He arranges her against his side, brushing his fingers down her back and rubbing at the small scars dotting her spine.

“I will not let him win,” she forces out, propelling herself forward to perch over him once more. She braces her hands against his shoulders before smoothing them down his breastbone.

“Slow,” he soothes.

“Slow,” she agrees. She tentatively rubs against him, feeling the stickiness of his fluids where they press against her own. He tilts his head, eyeing the space between their bodies to watch his cock flex between the swollen lips of her cunt. She rocks forward as he begins to lift his hips, the friction of their bodies warming her flesh. She sighs and shivers, the build-up of previous pleasure rapidly returning.

“I love you,” she whispers, watching the chase of desire cross his face. His eyes glitter like the dappled sun on dewy leaves. “Even if it’s wrong, I’ll love you forever.”

He is her mirror.

She adjusts herself, letting the smooth head of his member slip once more between the tender folds of her flesh, barely brushing her damp entrance. Shifting back gingerly, she unconsciously clenches her nails, digging them into the smooth skin of his chest beneath her palms.

It takes some adjustment, both of them struggling to find the right angle, before she finally seats herself. She takes a breath, letting it out slowly.

He reaches for her, gripping her hips in his hands but otherwise does not move. He simply lets her grow accustomed to the feel of him inside, while he works to control his own breathing. She can feel the eager pulse of his cock, knows he would love nothing more than to rut upwards to seek his own pleasure.

Instead, he waits and it is his patience that breaks her own. She clasps a hand over her mouth as she lifts herself before grinding herself back down, the clench of her body sending a rush of fluid between their bodies. She can feel it damp between her thighs, coating the soft skin of his testicles beneath her bottom.

His gasp lights her nerves on fire and he would be hard-pressed to control her movements. She writhes on top of him, seeking her own pleasure in mindless abandon. She can feel the clench of her inner walls, vise-tight around his cock.

James thrusts upwards, unable to control himself further. There is nothing but the sound of slick flesh, barely-muffled cries and the creak of the bedframe. She rides the wave on his body, knees clenched tight to his ribs. She closes her eyes though can feel his gaze like a physical caress. Trembling, she slumps forward against his chest, burying her face in his neck.

Holding back tears, Zilpha bites almost viciously at his neck. Bucking, he grunts as he holds her rolling hips and angles her back and high. The adjustment triggers something inside of her, and with a cry, she feels her walls spasm in furious pleasure. Tingling aftershocks suffuse her body as she slumps further into his embrace, his hips jerking wildly as he chases his own pleasure. His hands slide slickly across her back, holding her tightly. She murmurs happily, pressing sloppy kisses to his neck and ear.

James groans wordlessly just as she feels a flood of warmth inside, and she knows enough to be worried but it is a distant concern as lethargic lassitude seeps through their limbs. Instead, she simply enjoys the closeness as he mumbles sleepily beneath her.

**Author's Note:**

> Timeline assumptions: Zilpha is older than James by about 2 years. Her mother was Horace Delaney's first wife. James' mother was his second.
> 
> You may wonder why I wrote Zilpha being molested by her father - in my head canon this was somewhat of a learned behavior for James though I'm sure both would absolutely loathe the idea. I also think that with such a horrible history at the hands of her father, she would be more susceptible to the idea of half-sibling incest with James. 
> 
> There will be more chapters coming, stay tuned! I always appreciate constructive feedback.


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